


Of Gods and Men

by psychobabblers



Series: the horses' heads were toward eternity [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DCU
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Grief/Mourning, M/M, possible triggers, slightly graphic description of destruction, standalone fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychobabblers/pseuds/psychobabblers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You look at Superman, and you wonder, what can he possibly have to worry about? What could possibly ever hurt him? But just because his skin is invulnerable, that doesn’t mean his heart is. And that’s how you hurt Superman. You break his heart." </p>
<p> ~ Lois Lane [New Earth]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s raining the day Clark’s world goes silent. He loves the rain, loves the rolling thunder that echoes through the city, the tapping of raindrops, the sense of being in the grip of a power greater than himself. It’s an illusion where it matters though, for he can still hear the steady _thump, thump, thump,_ across miles, through storms. He closes his eyes as he gently dries a plate, focusing on the fragile thing he’s holding in his hands, and then a jump and a stutter are all the warnings he has before the rain pounding against the windows are no longer obscuring an infinitely more precious sound. Suddenly the rain is just rain.

His mind jumps, stutters as he tries to will his body to move, to do something, instead of standing there frozen, a wet plate in one hand and a cloth in the other. It might not mean anything. Bruce goes dark all the time, he’s always vanishing, tracking leads to bitterest depths of the world, without ever having the thought to tell Clark. But even as his mind trips over the thoughts, he knows that this time is different. There’s no more silver thread leading him back to Bruce.

He flinches a little at the sound of the raindrops viciously striking the ground, the building, the trees, and then there’s a crash as the plate shatters into pieces on the tile floors of his kitchen.

Already halfway to Gotham, Superman still hears each shard just fine.

* * *

 

The scene that meets his eyes is one he sees more often than he would like, being both a reporter and a superhero. The horror of it never lessens though, no matter how many scenes of destruction he sees, that he’s too late to prevent.

Nothing prepares him for this though. A three car pile-up. A red Mustang, dark blue mini-van, and a terrifyingly familiar dark grey Lamborghini. Only a lifetime of seeing far more gruesome sights than this allows Superman to keep his expression still. He wants to throw up.

“Superman?” a bystander is talking to him, asking him a question, and he realizes he’s been staring blankly at the wreckage. The wailing sirens he’d heard on arrival are getting louder. He looks down to see a woman, eyes wide with shock. “Is, is there…did anyone…?” she trails off, unable to finish.

Clark knows he should shake his head gravely, tell her that there were no survivors, give her a gentle press on her shoulders. He knows that he should do something, try to keep the onlookers back in case there is a fire. He should… but he can’t. Not when he can feel a howl rising in him, threatening to split his being in two. He should sweep the scene again, check to see if maybe there had been a miracle, but he can't, he can't bear to use his powers to tell him again what he already knows.

The left side of the Lamborghini is almost completely crushed by the front of the Mustang.

He can’t toss the cars apart like he wants to, is afraid to. The world doesn’t know, they’ll know if he does this, they can put it together, if Superman breaks down at the sight of Bruce Wayne’s destroyed car, and there’s hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him that, here and now, at the end of everything, all he can focus on is Bruce’s paranoia.

“Good,” Bruce would tell him, approval lacing Batman’s gruff voice.

The police are here now, and the firefighters too, cautiously approaching the scene of twisted metal and smoke choking the air. Dimly, he wonders how he’s still in the air, when his world has just been ripped apart.

The reporters arrive, and he’s still floating there, frozen.

“—several eyewitnesses who saw what happened and Superman is on the scene. The dark grey Lamborghini has been confirmed to be Bruce Wayne’s, owner of Wayne Enterprises. As of now, it is unknown as to whether he was the driver or on board the vehicle. Police are still unaware of the identities of the other victims, and there seems to be little hope that anyone survived,” a woman is speaking into a camera, calmly narrating Clark’s nightmare.

Oh god. Dick. And Alfred, and Tim. They could be watching this right now, or perhaps they haven’t seen yet… Superman abruptly takes off, thoughts of Bruce’s family briefly holding at bay the pain that threatens to swamp him.

When he arrives at the Manor, he realizes he’s too late. Nobody comes to the door, so he goes to the ‘Cave, a wild thought setting his heart beating again. Maybe it had just been coincidence, maybe Bruce hadn’t been in the car, maybe he’d happened to be testing a new armor that dampened his heartbeat. The maybes dance around his mind and strangled his breath, and he put on a burst of speed to arrive to an empty ‘Cave. He staggers at the sight of the screens; Batman’s usual monitoring systems are lit up with muted news channels, shots of the accident from all angles. It’s eerily silent.

Clark focuses his x-ray vision and finds that Alfred is sitting slumped in the living room, Dick next to him. A moment more and Tim bangs into the house, eyes red and a lost look in his eyes. Dick rises and opens his arms. Tim throws himself into them.

Eventually they all leave, probably to the accident site.

Clark stays motionless in the ‘Cave, wanting to turn the feeds off, but unwilling to disobey Bruce’s rule of never turning the feeds off. He doesn’t want to look at them though, so he stares at the ground instead. Studies each crack. Dims his hearing down, makes the quiet even quieter.

“Clark?” A hand lands on his shoulder, and he spins around violently, is up in the air in a flash.

Dick slowly raises his hands. “It’s me, Clark,” he says softly, voice rough. A moment passes by with agonizing slowness. Clark lands on his feet, feeling the ache in his knees—and when had he slipped into kneeling position anyways?—despite being invulnerable. He’s glad of it, glad of the physical discomfort that makes even the slightest dent in the pain blossoming in his heart.

“Clark,” Dick’s voice is still gentle, but he can hear the edge of steel beneath it. “Your eyes are red.”

Clark blinks in surprise at that, and the room suddenly returns to normal, no longer being viewed through flame. “I’m sorry,” he says. Dick’s arms are suddenly around him, as if he can’t help himself. Clark’s mind flashes to when he’d first met Batman’s young protégé, then only a child, the joy with which he lived his life. He brings his arms around him, now grown into a young man whom Bruce is so very proud of, and strokes his hair like he had when Bruce’s snarling personality had been too much and Dick had run to him for comfort. He realizes Dick is sobbing into his chest, as he hadn’t done so for years, his shoulders shaking slightly, as he tries to hold the tears back.

“It’s okay, Dick,” he says softly, because that’s what is expected of him, what he expects of himself. And back then it had been. Dick would cry himself out, and Clark would give him ice cream, and Bruce would apologize in his own ways. There’s ice cream in the freezer in the house, but their usual routine won’t work because Clark can’t keep his own tears from sliding down his face.

“I put Tim to sleep,” Dick mumbles against his chest. “And Alfred… he looked so old, I can’t…”

“Shh,” Clark murmurs, because if he tries to speak, he doesn’t think he can stop his voice from trembling.

“How’re you… how do you…” Dick can’t seem to finish his sentences, but Clark understands. He’d been briefly startled out of his careful study of Bruce’s floor by a flash of motion that seemed too real for the monitors. He’d watched as Dick had shoved through the crowd, dodging the policemen who tried to stop him, to fall to his knees at the sight of the crushed Lamborghini. He must’ve screamed himself hoarse, Clark thinks.

He’d watched Dick fall apart on the monitors, unable to move, wracked with guilt.

Now he tightens his arms around him in response, because he’s still incapable of speaking. Some kind of Superman you are, he thinks bitterly.

Dick’s harsh breathing eventually evens out and Clark carries him up the stairs to his bedroom, where he tucks him in as he hadn’t done for him for years. He stands in the doorway and watches him sleep for a moment, eyes still wet. When he turns to leave and check on Tim, he finds Alfred standing before him.

“I have already seen to Master Tim,” Alfred says gravely. His eyes are rimmed with red, the most uncomposed Clark had ever seen him, but the worry in his eyes is directed at Clark.

Clark nods, tightly.

“I’m sorry, Master Clark,” Alfred begins, but Clark holds out a hand; he already knows what Alfred is about to ask him.

“I know,” he says, “Batman needs to be seen tonight.”

As he heads back down to the ‘Cave to put on the suit, he thinks that Batman is a real bastard sometimes.

He does a careful patrol of Bruce’s beloved city. It’s shrouded in mist tonight, and the moon is full above it. He’s just thinking that there’s not much going on tonight, a fact which he is grateful for, when the bat signal lights up the night sky, piercing dimly through the mist. He swings up to the familiar roof, to find Commissioner Gordon standing there waiting for him. Not for him, he reminds himself. For Bruce, for Batman. But the police commissioner would have to make do with Superman tonight.

Gordon looks terribly relieved when he sees him, but as soon as Batman’s feet touch the roof, the smile that had begun to grow on his face dies. “Batman,” he greets, but his eyes are bleak.

Clark inclines his head, “Commissioner.” When Gordon simply continues to stare at him, he says, “Do you have a case for me?”

“No, I just wanted to check in with you,” Gordon admits after a moment.

Batman might have growled something about not wasting his time, but Clark doesn’t have the heart to take the charade that far.

“There’s no need to keep tabs on me,” he says instead.

Gordon shakes his head a little, doesn’t reply. Batman begins to melt back into the shadows and Gordon’s shoulders slump. “Thanks for having my back,” Clark rasps in Batman’s voice. Empty words in the darkness, and too late, forever too late, but it seems to help Gordon anyways. Clark leaps off the building and swings toward one of Bruce’s favorite vantage points, where he spends the rest of the night and early hours of the morning staring out across Bruce’s city, standing vigil over that what had been most precious to him, trying not to think, not to feel anything every time he catches sight of the edge of a black cape in the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the pained leaping of his heart, trying not to hold his breath to see if the shadows would whisper to him.

The sun rises slowly, as if it can’t bear to push the darkness back, but eventually its rays pierce through the mist and dissipate it, and Clark has to return to his broken world.

* * *

 

Later he would remember, with the vagueness of a dream, the funeral, played out exactly to Bruce’s specifications, the aftermath of the funeral, the cream of Gotham in somber black, still glittering with diamonds, who swirled around in an atmosphere that reminds Clark too much of the parties that Bruce had so hated. He’d remember how he’d forced himself to stay until the last guest staggers out the door and then stood in the center of the ballroom draped in black, Batman’s colors in Bruce Wayne’s space, staring blankly, Alfred’s gentle hand finally tugging him out of whatever dark place his mind had wandered to. How he’d shaken his head dumbly at Alfred’s suggestion that he retire to the room he’d shared with Bruce to rest.

How his heart had almost shattered again at the pained lines in Alfred’s face that hadn’t been there before, how Clark’d almost reached out a hand to comfort him, only to still the motion before it began, for how could he offer comfort to Alfred, he who had been a father to Bruce, when he is still falling apart?

He’d shaken his head and promised to return to his apartment to rest. And he had, briefly, but he couldn’t stand the silence and had walked, still in a daze, to the Daily Planet. If he’s not going to sleep, he might as well get caught up on the work he’s fallen far behind on.

Clark realizes that he must have sat at his desk the entire night when Lois appears at his shoulder, and how come he hadn’t sensed her approaching, hadn’t heard the elevator door’s cheerful chime? It all serves to show, he thinks dully, that his decision to resign leadership of the Justice League. He’s in no fit condition to do anything.

“Oh Clark, honey,” Lois says, and she doesn’t sound herself. She sounds sad and Clark doesn’t think he can take any more sadness in the world. She pulls him up, as if he is light as a feather and not the Man of Steel, and wraps him in her arms, and isn’t, not today. He closes his eyes in her embrace for a moment and is surprised to find that he is trembling. “Go home, Clark.”

“Can’t,” he finds himself whispering back. “It’s gone.”

She’s still for a moment and then her arms tighten around him, saying nothing.

It’s always silent in the world these days.

*

He’s crouched on the floor of his bedroom in the Fortress of Solitude. He’s got his hands clamped to his ears, and he could make the horrible noise stop whenever he wants, the sound of worlds living their lives as if his hadn’t been destroyed; he’s had his powers under control since childhood, but he craves the sounds crashing in on him, no matter that it gives him headaches and nausea. He needs to fill the silence.

It’s deafening.

*

“I think I love you,” Bruce had said one day, when they were Batman and Superman, and Clark’s never heard Bruce’s uncertainty bleed out into Batman before.

He doesn’t like it, so he kisses it away.

*  
“The world needs you, Kal,” Diana says. “We need Superman.”

Clark looks at her for a long moment. “I kinda need him too right now,” he says softly, and Diana’s stern features crease a little at the edges.

She’s wrong, he thinks when she reluctantly leaves. The world is just fine without him.

*

Sometimes he wonders what Bruce would think of him, of how he’d become unhinged—yes he could admit it to himself—at his death. Would he be understanding, the way it seemed only Bruce could, not so much in words as in his solid comforting presence, or would he order him to snap out of it, to remind him that there were more important things to deal with?

Probably the latter, he decides. Bruce doesn’t—didn’t—ever put up with his shit. And he hadn’t let Bruce get away with anything either.

But he’d let him die.

*

Clark spends a lot of time sitting in his Fortress, turning away all visitors. He watches the stars at night, occasionally recognizing a system he’s been to, but that brings him memories of Bruce, and he still feels hollow inside. He spends a lot of time thinking, though Bruce would probably have called it moping.

Bruce, who had loved him.

He clenches his hands into fists. There’s no sense in it, no sense in anything anymore, but Clark can’t control the anger that sweeps through him whenever he remembers. Bruce had told him that he loved him, had declared himself to be Clark’s, and Clark to be his, and had then promptly gone off and gotten himself killed.

In a car crash of all things.

The universe had a sick sense of humor sometimes.

*

Clark briefly considers remaining here, entombed in ice, for the rest of his long days. He plays with the idea for only a few moments before tossing it out. He knows what Bruce would have to say to _that._

* * *

 

The message that scrolls across the screen of the computer comes as a surprise, though it hindsight, it probably shouldn’t’ve. Trust Bruce to have contingency plans for his death.

“You’ve had a week. Stop moping,” it read. It was signed “B,” as if Clark wouldn’t have known.

He waits a little, hoping for—hoping for what exactly? “You’re a bastard, Bruce,” he says with no real heat.

He’s turned away when a soft chime signifies another message, and the shot time between the two makes Clark imagine how Bruce must have paused, in an uncharacteristic moment of indecision.

“I love you.”

The words shine on the screen for a moment before fading away, leaving Clark with his arm half raised, reaching out toward nothingness.

"I love you too," he says softly.


	2. Chapter 2

They say that your life flashes before your eyes before you die. They say that time stretches to infinity before you at the moment before you pass. They say death is quicker and easier than falling asleep. 

For the man behind the wheel of the Lamborghini that evening, it is none of the above. 

But if he'd had the chance to say his piece before his world went white, as the hero in movies always did, as is the right of the old man who passes peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by family, it'd go something like this:

Bruce Wayne is a man of many faces, and to each of them belong a regret.

There's the little boy who can never forget his parents' murders, who has lived always with the what-ifs clouding his mind, the echoes of unsaid words off worn gravestones.

There's Batman, the Dark Knight of Gotham, scarred with regret, physically, mentally, and emotionally. When he stalks Gotham by moonlight, he is ever accompanied by the ghosts of those he'd been too late to save.

There's the father, so proud of his sons, unable to voice that feeling, wrapping his own uncertainty with gruffness and unrelenting demands for excellence. 

And finally, there's Bruce, the man, who'd loved so fiercely , knowing always the race of time against him, not knowing that it'd been a sprint all along, not a marathon. He thinks of Clark, all the years they'd had together, the mere weeks that theyd actually officially been together, recalls the moment he gathers his courage and presses his lips to Clark's, their mutual surprise that he'd been the one to acknowledge this thing that had been building up between them for years. They slipped easily into place from old friends to lovers. And though he could see the practicalities that had been in waiting, he wishes he could have seen the light earlier. If he'd known that he'd never be coming back from that board meeting he'd never have been saving himself for the marathon when he should have thrown himself into the fray with complete abandon. 

Clark would be devastated, he knows. There's a very real chance the world would lose its greatest defender, and all because Bruce had been careless enough to die right after he'd started dating him. Clark must have considered Bruce's eventual death; he had never been the type to back away from a challenge. But the fact of Bruce's mortality is a challenge even Superman cannot overcome. 

How had it felt, Bruce wonders, to know that even love couldn't last forever? That even optimistically thinking, they'd only have a few more decades together at most, if they were very, very lucky, considering both their superhero-ing tendencies? A few decades is nothing compared to eternity, and Clark could very well live that long.

So Clark must have considered it. But Bruce doubts he'd thought of what he'd do if those decades were suddenly slashed to a few weeks. After all, contingency plans are Batman's job. 

"I'm sorry, Clark," he wishes he could say. "I'm so sorry that I have to ask you to be strong, to walk the world without me." He wishes he could kiss him again, could make love to him one more time, to see Clark's smile. He wishes he could tell him how happy he'd been, the last weeks of his life, even though they'd been mostly the same as they'd been for years, albeit with more of Clark's smiles, if that were possible, and a whole lot of amazing sex. 

Bruce looks into Death's eyes with the regret that his last thought had been an apology to the man he loves, that he'd never get a chance to apologize for thinking that instead of "I love you."

Or perhaps it goes simply like this:

When the air erupts in screaming metal and blinding pain, in the last split second of his life, Bruce Wayne is glad of Batman’s contingency plans.


	3. Chapter 3

He visits his mother first. She says nothing, just sweeps him up into her arms and lets him sob into her shoulder, like he had when he was small.

She doesn’t press him to speak, but lets him eat an entire apple pie.

“Remember there are people who love you, Clark,” she tells him when he gets ready to leave. Her sad smile sends a jolt of shame to the bottom of his stomach as the pleading of assorted Justice League members hadn’t. “Remember that I love you.”

He gives her another hug then. “I love you too, Ma.”

The Daily Planet is next, and he stops by his apartment first to change. Armored in his usual suit and glasses, briefcase in hand, he nevertheless squares his shoulders a little before stepping into the hectic office. He hadn’t expected a dramatic reaction, but he’s still relieved when the most his coworkers do is stare a little, and he can’t really blame them. It hadn’t been a secret that Bruce and him had been dating, despite the air of disbelief that sometimes came with the news.

“Smallville!” Lois gives him a hug as well. She takes a step back and looks him over critically. “You okay?” Clark nods and smiles, and there’s enough truth in his response that it’s not even that much of a lie. She stares at him a little, as if trying to gauge his honesty, but is apparently satisfied. “White said to tell you to just go straight back to work, no need to bother him,” and finally seems mollified by Clark’s answering grin. “I’m here if you need me.”

“I know, Lois,” Clark says. “Thanks.”

At the end of the day, he ducks out of his coworkers’ offers to go out and eat, and instead heads for the Watchtower. There are other people he needs to see before the day ends.

Metropolis dwindles to a dot as he spirals up into the air, rising past clouds until he has broken through the earth’s atmosphere. He lets himself drift slowly to the Watchtower.

“Kal!” Diana has her arms around him almost immediately.

“I’m sorry, Diana,” he says softly, and he sees anger and sadness and understanding flicker on her face at the words before she’s dismissed them for joy again.

“Apology accepted,” she replies.

“How have you been?”

“As well as I could be, with two of my closest friends out of my reach,” Diana says, but there is no reproach in her voice. Clark resists the urge to apologize again. “It’s lonely, being a superhero. I’m sorry that you found something beautiful, only to have it taken from you.”

Clark tries to speak, but his throat has closed up at her words. She watches him compassionately as he gropes for speech. “I just thought that we’d have more time,” he finally manages.

Her gaze is openly haunted. He wonders how many sleepless nights she had, in the week following the accident, if she had nightmares about the man she loved cold and still. He wonders if she had been reminded, as he had, of what it means to love a mortal. “We all thought we’d had more time,” she says. “It was easy to forget that Bruce wasn’t invulnerable when you Batman fights at your side day after day, never missing a punch, never falling behind, despite being without powers.”

When he finally arrives at Wayne Manor, he hesitates on the steps. The door opens while he’s standing there though, and Dick is at the doorway. “Clark!” he says, happy to see him, but Clark can see the sadness lurking behind his gaze. He suspects he looks the same. He takes a step forward but is swept into a hug. He closes his eyes and accepts the comfort, feeling it wash over him as well as a twinge of guilt. Today, he’s had more human contact than he has had in a week.

“How are you doing?” Clark asks.

Dick just shrugs a little. “It’s hard to accept that he’s gone,” he says.

“I know,” Clark says softly. “I’m sorry I’ve been…away. I’m here now, though. If you need to talk, I’m always available.”

Dick nods.

A week passes, then a few more, and before Clark knows it, the seasons have changed again, and again. He’s been kept busy. Terrorist attacks, natural disaster, off-planet wars, and diplomatic missions. His work at the Daily Planet. Relaxing in the Watchtower with Diana, having dinner with Lois. Visiting the boys at the Mansion. Taking care of Ma.

There’s not a day goes by that he doesn’t think of Bruce.

On his and Bruce’s anniversary, he retreats to his Fortress once again, dropping all contact despite protests. He knows he’s being selfish, but he can’t bring himself to care. The world had been fine before Superman. It could give him one day more to grieve.

He spends the day in quiet thought. He sits outside, watching the doings of the arctic’s wildlife. He reads for a few hours, and prepares simple meals. He thinks of Bruce and for once, feels no pain. As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, shooting the sky with orange streaks, Clark retires to the living room, and starts a fire. He pours himself a glass of wine and settles into one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the fireplace and stares into the dancing flames.

“You have a new file,” the computer informs him, breaking into his reverie. Clark frowns.

“A new message?” he asks.

“A new file,” the computer corrects. “It is the time and date of the unlock specified on the file.”

The only person Clark could think of who had the skill to leave a sleeping file in the Fortress computers, unless his security had been severely compromised, was Bruce. He remembers the message he had received so long ago and walks slowly toward the control room. There is indeed a new file sitting on the desktop. It’s entitled “To Clark.”

He clicks it, mouth dry, heart pounding, and is rewarded by the unexpected sight of Bruce. He looks quite young. The video had probably been recorded only a few years after they had first met. His chest feels tight.

“Clark,” Bruce says, and his face would be calm, serene but for the anguish in his eyes. “Superman, Kal, my Clark.” He stops again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so slow.” Bruce drags a hand over his face, and Clark notes the lines of exhaustion his body is drawn out of. Bruce doesn’t go into more detail, and Clark gives up trying to speculate the exact mission because Bruce is talking again. “I almost lost you today, Clark, and I realized something that I’ve been hiding from myself and taking out on you.”

Bruce looks square into the camera. “I love you.” He looks away again. “I know that I am…not nice to you, and that you probably don’t even consider me a friend, let alone a lover. But I needed to say it aloud, and stop lying to myself. Maybe now I can figure out how to work through this. Who knows, maybe someday, we’ll even manage to be in the same room without getting into an argument.” Bruce chuckles. Clark smiles a little himself. Sometimes he forgets how rocky their relationship had started off.

There’s a long pause, like Bruce is mulling over his words. “But whatever happens, Clark, know this: I was alone until I met you. So thank you.”

Bruce sighs. The video keeps playing. Finally, Bruce mutters, “Computer, del—” and he cuts himself off. “Never mind. Save it. For my eyes only. End recording.” The video goes black, but Bruce isn’t done with him yet because there’s a flicker on the screen and a different video comes up, with a noticeably older Bruce. Older in body, but not in spirit, Clark thinks, and it’s true; there is a lightness in Bruce’s eyes that had not been present in the first video.

“Today was our first date, Clark.” There’s a flicker of joy on Bruce’s face before it returns to normal. Clark can’t tear his eyes from Bruce’s. “I’m sorry that you are watching this, Clark. I’m sorry that I didn’t have the courage to tell you my feelings earlier. I’m sorry for so many things. But mostly I’m sorry that I am mortal.” Clark shivers a little at Bruce’s sudden bleakness, his heart aching with grief in a way that he thought he’d gotten over. Bruce begins pacing on the screen, and Clark realizes he’s still wearing the clothes from their first date.

Bruce must have recorded this not long after they had gone their separate ways. Clark remembers his disappointment and how Bruce had laughed with unexpected sweetness, and confessed he wanted to take things slowly and do it right. He wishes—but there’s no point going down that line of thought.

The video had stopped playing when the Fortress computer saw that Clark’s attention had wandered. It resumes now.

Bruce’s smile is fierce, Batman’s rare smile, and his eyes are gentle, Bruce’s eyes after they’d kissed for the first time. “I know that the price you pay to help people is immortality. I was alone until I met you, Clark,” Bruce says, echoing the words he had said in the first video. “And it breaks my heart to think of you being alone. So whether we had a week or a lifetime together, I needed you to see this, for you to know how long you were loved.”

Bruce pauses for a moment, gathering himself. “Happy anniversary, Clark. I love you, now and always.”

Clark smiles. “Love you too,” he whispers to the empty room.

* * *

 

There are no more videos after that, not that Clark is expecting there to be. Bruce had not been one for sentimentalities. The years seem to fly after that, turning into decades, and then centuries. He attends the funerals of his friends, makes new ones, attends their’s as well. He’s there when Diana loses Steve, his heart aching for her as it hadn’t in decades, knowing the pain she feels, and it’s as if he’d lost Bruce just yesterday. He stays in the lives of every Batman through the many, many years. Some he gets along with, some he becomes friends with, some can’t stand him. But they all work well with him, as night does with day from the beginning to the end of time.

There’s still not a day goes by he doesn’t think of Bruce in some way. Perhaps a passing bird, or if the sky matches the particular shade of blue of Bruce’s eyes. He loves others as well and never watches Bruce’s anniversary recording again, though sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night with Bruce’s name on his lips. He loves fully and openly because it’s not a betrayal.

Superman has lived for over a thousand years, and will perhaps continue living for a thousand more. He’s spent every one of those years giving and giving. He knows better than to expect a reward at the end, to have Bruce there in whatever afterlife, if there is one, waiting for him. Clark understands that he has had his reward already, of having Bruce in his life, even if it had only been a spark compared to the rest of his very long life.

It’s a spark that’s brighter than all the stars, and it was worth it.


End file.
